


Blood Moon

by mrua7



Series: Strange, scary stories and the Man from U.N.C.L.E. [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A highly addictive drug is quickly inundating New York and is now spreading globally at an alarming rate. Illya has his theories as to why. Can the men from U.N.C.L.E. stop this plague before it brings the world to an end? Originally posted as a one-shot but reader demand has gotten me to expand into a longer, ominous 'future-fic.' Pre-saga</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

It was an undercover assignment that became complicated, much more than Illya Kuryakin had bargained for when he assumed the identity of a Russian drug dealer nicknamed ‘Rasputin.’

He was able to sidestep partaking the drugs that surrounded him, while he watched others using needles...injecting themselves with heroin, or snorting lines of cocaine.

Pills, pot, chemical concoctions...you name it, Rasputin dealt in it.

He sat on a bed covered in black satin sheets in a garishly decorated room that had been prepared for him by Stefano Ferrero, his new best friend. The walls were covered with crude paintings of nude women done on black velvet that seemed to glow like neon as they were hung beneath what looked like some sort of ultra-violet light fixtures.

Beside him was sprawled another gift, a scantily clad young girl sent there to fill Rasputin’s only known vice.

Her blonde curls were tied up into pigtails and her face painted with plenty of makeup, in an attempt, he guessed, to make her look older and more alluring. Her clothing was nothing but a thin cotton blouse tied at the waist, through which he could tell she wore no brassiere, and a red plaid pleated mini skirt so short that it left little to the imagination.

“Hey handsome, Stephano said it would be cool, you know, if we get high before we do it. He says it makes the sex more intense...though this would be my first time using something this potent.” She produced a syringe, a spoon, a lighter and a piece of foil, no doubt containing heroin.”

“No thank you, I do not like needles,” Kuryakin pushed it aside.

“Okay man, maybe you wanna do some lines with me then?” She dropped a small plastic bag containing white powder, a straight razor and a rolled up dollar bill on the night table. “Or pills maybe, I got plenty of those. This is all your stuff in a way."

Laughing nervously she dumped a handful of multi colored tablets and capsules beside the other drugs.

“How old are you?” He asked as she began to disrobe.

“Fourteen but I’m gonna be fifteen next week. I ran away from home last year.”

Illya reached out, staying her hands and pulling her blouse back on, buttoning it closed.

“If I give you money, would you leave this place and go back home to your family?”

“Why would I want to do that? My mother is a drunk and my father beat me...when he was home.”

“All right then, if I give you the address of a shelter would you go there? I will have some money waiting for you and help so you will no longer have to live this sort of life.”

“You’re weird,” she tried tossing a few pills into her mouth but Illya stopped her.” They said you’d be weird, but I didn’t think like this, I thought that meant you liked kinky. You’re the head honcho right, the big cheese aren’t you? I would have thought you were cool with drugs.” She tried crawling closer to him, making a grab for his crotch.

“No, do not touch me please,” he held her by the wrist until she relaxed and backed off, “and yes I am the head honcho as you say, but I do not like to see young girls like you living this way. I had a sister once...you remind me of her. She,” he hesitated in his lie for effect, “ she died of a drug overdose at a young age.” 

He’d complicated his cover by telling such a story, but hoped his sad little tale would work on her sensibilities.

Illya reached into his pocket, and handed her a twenty dollar bill after scribbling the address of the Bowery Mission and the name of Claire on a piece of paper.

“What is your name?”

“Louise, Louise Miller,” she took the money and the paper from him. “Thanks Mr. Rasputin.”

“You go now and do as I tell you. Do not speak to anyone, you understand?” He wiped the makeup from her face with his fingers.

“That is much better,” he smiled at her. Now she looked like a wide-eyed child instead of a painted prostitute.

“Yes sir.” 

“And if I find out you have not arrived at the address,” he warned, “you will suffer the consequences for ummm, double-crossing me. You get my drift? Dig?"

"Yes sir.”

He handed her his black suit jacket, “Now put this on, cover yourself up and get out of here right away. Do not stop for any of your things.”

Louise looked at him in bewilderment, yet she was grateful. She wasn’t happy in this life but didn’t know of any other way to survive. At fourteen she’d hit rock bottom and thought this was it.

Illya watched as she left, closing the door behind her. He gathered up the drugs on the nightstand, flushing what he could down the toilet and destroying the syringe; he tossed it and the razor into the trash.

He walked out on his balcony, staring up at the moon, seeing a lunar eclipse had begun. Illya reminded himself it was the first in a series of predicted eclipses...

It was not just astronomically significant, as the self-proclaimed Godless Russian knew of a religious meaning to this event as well. Tonight was the first of the Blood Moons, the upcoming lunar tetrad – the series of four total lunar eclipses…

Illya spoke aloud…

"The sun shall be turned into darkness, and the moon into blood, before the great and the terrible day of the Lord come." 

They were words that appeared in both the Old and New Testaments. A fulfillment of a Biblical prophecy… the moon supposedly turning to blood red before the end times. Though he denied the existence of a God since he was a child, Illya still read the bible and other such texts...they were books after all.

The blond agent brushed his hair out of his eyes as a sudden breeze blew. Was it his imagination coloring his vision? Did the moon appear to indeed be red? 

It was time. He pulled his communicator from his pocket. 

“Open Channel D-Solo.”

“Here tovarisch, everything ready?” Solo spoke softly.

“It is, you may commence the raid in fifteen minutes. Out.”

He looked up at the sky again...it would indeed be a Blood Moon tonight, perhaps not literally but figuratively for Stefano Ferraro and would mark his 'end of days.'

As to the Blood Moon being the start of the end of the world, that remained to be seen…


	2. Chapter 2

 

It was in the wee hours of the morning when Napoleon and Illya finished up their verbal report with Alexander Waverly. Both of them were dog tired and were now walking together in the nearly empty grey corridors of their home away from home.

It was a strange sensation, seeing only a few Communications specialists coming and going or housekeeping services cleaning the floors with their electronic floor polishers.

 It was rare this pair of agents were at headquarters this time of the morning, unless one or both of them worked a late shift, manning Security or Communications stations, generally that meant it was a holiday and the Russian was generously covering for someone else.

 Solo, being the Chief Enforcement Agent, was exempt from such duty but like his partner, he volunteered for it from time to time. 

“Hey did you see that eclipse this morning tovarisch?” Solo yawned.” I’ve never seen the moon that color before. I swear it looked blood red...very eerie.”

 “Yes I saw the start of it. It is actually called a blood moon... a rare phenomenon”.

 “ What made it red?” Napoleon asked.

"Some sunlight was still hitting the moon and particles in the atmosphere caused the light rays coming from the sun to bounce around. Some were refracted, or bent. They were redirected through the atmosphere and out around behind Earth and onto the moon, which is blocked only from direct sunlight. Therefore  the moon was still visible in the sky. However, it was the refracted rays of sunlight  illuminating the moon, that turned it a reddish color.”

 That actually made sense to the American but as Illya continued, Napoleon realized his partner had lost him at the words, ‘reddish color.’

 “All the bouncing around of those rays had to go through on their way through the atmosphere, well the more atmosphere that sunlight travels through, the more the blue and green parts of the spectrum are scattered. That is why sunrises and sunsets are yellow and pink and red. The low early or late sun, hitting the atmosphere at a shallow angle, has to fight through more atmospheric particles on its way to your eye, and the reddish wavelengths get through better.”

  
“You know what pal, though I’m actually interested in what you have to say, I’m just too tired to listen anymore at the moment. What say you explain it again to me tomorrow...I mean in the daylight hours today after we’ve both had some shut eye?”

Illya yawned as well. “You will get no argument from me there.”

“How about we use guest quarters?” Napoleon clapped his partner on the back.” We can hit the hay a half hour sooner if we do than if we head back to our apartment building.”

“Agreed,” Illya yawned again, covering his mouth with his hand.

The partners did just that, heading upstairs and passively waved goodnight to each other as they disappeared into their rooms.

Kuryakin stripped down, removing everything, and slipped between the soft sheets. Their coolness against his skin made him sigh as he completely relaxed, closing  his eyes and instantly drifting off.

He had a a strange dream. He was on a roof staring at that blood moon, and there were people staggering on the streets below...zombie-like. That gave the Russian a sinking feeling.

Snoring lightly; he was woken with a start by a rapping at his door and instinctively Kuryakin’s hand went to his gun hidden beneath his pillow.

 A young freckle-faced Section III agent stuck his head inside, calling out to him.

 “I’m sorry to wake you Mr. Kuryakin but Mr. Waverly has requested you come down to his office immediately... Mr. Solo as well..”

 Illya switched on the lamp beside the bed, squinting at his wrist watch as his eyes adjusted.  It was barely six o’clock in the morning, meaning he’d gotten at best three hours sleep.  He sequestered a moan as he threw back the covers and rose from the bed, oblivious to his nudity..

 “Please inform Mr. Waverly that I will be there shortly.” He stretched his arms above his head, trying to will himself to alertness.

 “Yes sir.” The ginger-haired agent averted his eyes out of respect.

 “Agent Williams, is Mr. Solo awake yet?”

 “Yes sir, he said he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

 “Thank you Mr. Williams. Any chance you can get us a couple of cups of coffee up here in record time?

  
"Yes sir, right away."

 Illya headed to the bathroom and after a moment of staring in the mirror, the disturbiing images of his dream came back to him, and he asked himself what they meant? Shrugging; he gave himself a shave with a safety razor provided there for guests of U.N.C.L.E. and quickly dressed. Just as he finished tying his shoelaces, he heard Napoleon’s coded knock on the door.

Solo opened it without waiting. “You ready chum?”

 “Coming.” Illya stood, joining his bleary eyed partner; wordlessly heading out into the corridor.

 As the elevator doors opened  and there was the young Section III agent holding two coffee cups for them.

 “Good job Williams, I’ll be keeping my eye on you,”Napoleon smiled.

 He and Illya stepped inside and after both taking a long sip of caffeine, Napoleon spoke up, rubbing his face with his hand. Such a summons from the Old Man generally meant something bad was going down.

 “Good God, that man really doesn’t sleep. I know they say you need less of it as you age but I swear he doesn’t sleep at all,” the American groused.

 Illya refrained from complaining, as was his usual habit, but what was the point?

 “Good Morning sir,” he finally spoke as they arrived at and entered the conference room, finding Alexander Waverly seated at always at the circular table.

 “Yes good morning gentlemen. I do apologize for disturbing your sleep but a rather urgent situation has developed since we last spoke, what a little over three hours ago?  To cut to the chase, the city is in a near state of panic as there have been at least two hundred drug-related deaths in the last few hours.”

 “What are they taking?” Illya forced himself not to yawn.

 “It is a new drug that has seemingly just hit with unprecedented rapidity, and it’s use has already gone completely out of control...the street names for it are White Horse and White Rider.”

 “Horse as in heroin?” Napoleon asked.

 “Like heroin, it's opiate-based. That's what Research and Development have been able to surmise from the small samples that have been obtained, it is essentially pure except for one additive they are unable to identify as of yet.”

 “Is it that powerful that it is killing users so quickly? Illya asked.

 “Apparently it is so potent and addictive that as soon as a person uses it, they need another hit almost immediately and the process repeats itself again and again until the user succumbs from too much of it in their system.  If they don’t receive those additional doeses, they become, shall we say...combative and quite violent.  FDNY, Police and medical emergency personnel are already becoming overwhelmed with emergency calls.  Hospitals have been flooded with overdose patients, but unfortunately traditional treatments seem ineffective.”

 “This all happened in just three hours?”Napoleon was blown away.

 “Yes Mr. Solo.”

“Imagine what the situation will escalate to if this trend continues over the next twenty four hours?” Illya added.” It boggles the mind.” He wondered if this was related to his dream...his 'gift' of minor prophecy perhaps alluding to the growing crisis. Usually he voiced it as being 'I have a bad feeling about this," never saying more about his dreams.

 “Precisely Mr. Kuryakin. The FBI has been called in and we have been asked to assist in the investigation. Though you will not be working directly with them;  your fact-finding will be conducted independently, however, there will be information-sharing between U.N.C.L.E.  and the Americans. At the moment there is no clue as to the source of the drug, and no chatter or indications T.H.R.U.S.H. is involved."

“Where should we start sir?” Solo asked, thinking this had the potential to be looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

“I suggest the location of your last assignment, since that was a major hub for drug distribution. Report to me as soon as you find anything of note. Dismissed.”

Waverly turned his attention back to a stack of file folders in front of him, not even giving them the customary wave of his hand.  
  
His face was filled with concern on this one, perhaps more than he wanted to let on to his agents. There were few things that frightened Alexander Waverly, and he'd thought he'd seen it all in his lifetime, but this he had to admit unnerved him.  
  
That was the last thing he needed Solo and Kuryakin to see...  
              


	3. Chapter 3

 

                    

 

Solo and Kuryakin approached the three story building that had been the site of their last assignment.  The cleanup crew had come and gone, with everyone from addicts to the stable of prostitutes, with the exception of Stefano Ferrero being taken into custody. Somehow he alone had managed to escape.

The agents hesitated as the yellow caution tape in front of the entrance to the building was broken and the door wide open.

They immediately drew their weapons, cautiously entering and splitting up to search the first floor. Finding nothing they proceeded onto the second floor, going from room to room.  Finally the climbed the stairs to the upper floor, and there at the end of the hall they heard voices.

Napoleon and Illya positioned themselves on either side of the door, thick with aged layers of cracked and peeling black paint.

Solo gave a silent count of three, and together he and Illya kicked in the door; Napoleon charging in his aimed low while his partner kept his gun aimed high.

There was a dark-haired man in a tan trench coat hovering over none other than Stefano Ferrero, whose face was bruised and bloody.

Solo called out, stopping the next blow from being delivered.

“Hold it right there buddy. Who are you and what are you doing here?” He flashed his gold ID card.

“Whoa, wait a second,” the dark haired man said, raising his hands above his head and letting Ferraro slump to the floor. “You’re the U.N.C.L.E. agents I was told who’d be assisting in the investigation.”

“And you are?” Illya asked.

He reached for his breast pocket.

“No nooo,” Solo stopped him, reaching in and first removing a snubnose revolver from a shoulder holster and secondly the man’s wallet.

He thumbed through it, finding a driver’s license and an F.B.I. identification card and badge.

“And you are?” Illya repeated more emphatically this time.

“Agent John Uriel,” the man confirmed,” F.B.I. and you must be the Russian.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”Kuryakin asked, suddenly feeling defensive.

“Nothing, I just meant that your reputation precedes you. So if you’re Kuyakin, then you must be Solo.”

“Yes Napoleon Solo. Now are you going to answer my other question...what are you doing here?”

“Just conducting my investigation,” Uriel coldly answered.”Questioning a suspect. One I might add that you agents managed to let get away.”

Napoleon eyed the still form of Stephano, who looked to be in pretty bad shape.

“Well we’ll just take him off your hands and get him to our medical division for treatment before we continue with his interrogation.”

“Oh no Solo, he’s mine now,” Uriel sneered.”There’ll be information sharing at a later date, as per our agreement with Alexander Waverly. So might I ask the same of you? What are you doing here?”

Napoleon knew it was no point arguing with the man on either count.

“Conducting a less violent investigation.”

They backed off, leaving Uriel to his own devises and continued to search the rest of the building for anything that might have been missed.

Coming up empty handed; they were about to leave when Solo spotted something in the ashes of a fireplace on the first floor.  He dug it out with a poker and discovered a small half-burned black leather notebook.

He thumbed through it, finding page after page of what looked like formulas, though it was the equivalent of reading Martian to him.

“Illya take a look at this?” He handed the book to his partner who studied it carefully.

“I am well versed in mathematical formulas but these are the most complicated things I have ever seen. Nothing that I can decipher on my own. Research and Development will have to…”

“So what have you got there?” Uriel asked, walking up behind them.

 “Oh nothing that should interest you,” Napoleon sniped.

 “Yes, there will be information sharing at a later date, as per our agreement with the F.B.I.” Illya parrotted back at him, tucking the black book into his suit pocket.”

 “Where’s Stefano?” Solo asked.

 “He’s dead,” Uriel said coldly.

 “Why you bastard…” Napoleon started to charge him, but Illya held him back.

 "Take it easy Solo. I didn’t kill him. He was riding the White Horse and it finally did him in. Trust me, I wanted him alive as much as you.”

 “Did he talk?”

 “You already know my answer to that Kuryakin, right?”

 “We’re getting nowhere. Davayte ubirat'sya otsyuda partners shakhty. On ne stoit nashe vremya_let's get out of here partner mine. He's not worth our time,” Solo spoke in Russian just to piss off Uriel.

 “Vy nikogda ne dolzhny schitat', o kom-to , poka vy ne poznakomit'sya s nimi luchshe Solo_you should never assume about someone until you get to know them better Mr. Solo,” Uriel shot back, speaking Russian as well.

 

Six months later  New York city was like a ghost town. The drug now known exclusively as White Rider had hit like a plague of biblical proportions, sending the crime rate out of control. People were terrified as addicts were doing anything to get more of the drug, even resorting to kidnapping and murder.

 Fear kept ordinary people at home, affecting commerce at every level, including the stock market. It controlled not only New York but every major city throughout the United States, Canada, as well as Central and  South America. The White Rider had travelled that far and now the drug was beginning to infiltrate Europe as well.

 Its use knew no boundaries, spreading from big cities to little towns, inundating populations and killing them off like an angel of death; except there was no lambs blood to paint on the door lentils that would work to ward off this killer as the Hebrews in Egypt had done to protect themselves from the last of the great plagues sent by God…

 The nearby United Nations was half empty, with those brave enough to remain under private security from their countries.

 U.N.C.L.E. headquarters was now like a military fortress, with  round the clock security details on the roofs of the entire block of buildings that encompassed the complex.  they were armed to the hilt and ready to shoot...no sleep darts this time. The Mask Club had been closed down. Del Floria’s windows were boarded up, that was pretty much the case for every window at ground level all around the city.

 Non-essential personnel had been given the option to go home to their families, yet many volunteered to stay, doing what they could to offer support to the agents still out there in the field.

 Waverly’s wife, children and grandchildren had been moved to their summer home and had a security detail with them twenty-four-seven.

 Kuryakin and Solo had taken up residence in guest quarters, though they were there barely long enough for their heads to hit the pillows. When they weren’t there sleeping, someone else was, as space being at a premium, it was shared by all.

Alexander Waverly spent most of his waking hours in his conference room, taking and answering communiqués from around the globe. If everyone thought he never slept, now was proof in the pudding that he rarely did. Few saw him now days, with the exception of his number one and two agents and his assistant Lisa Rogers.

She above everyone else knew the man well and her concern for his health was increasing. He wasn’t a young man, and the on-going crisis was taking it’s toll on him… it was taking a toll on everyone

No leads, no one person or group could linked to the distribution of this  destructive drug. Pushers claimed they got their their stash from a friend of a friend, who somehow got lucky and found a supply left on his door step. An incongruous story that was heard time after time, yet it had a ring of truth in it.  Someone wanted this drug out there.

It wasn’t T.H.R.U.S.H. or any other nefarious organization that U.N.C.L.E. or their security counterparts across the world had dealt with in the past. No, the source was a great unknown.

The little black book had proven difficult to decipher. The formulas were not surprising in the end, but there were portions of them that made no sense,; referencing things that were unidentifiable.  So in essence the book became worthless until these mysterious elements could be determined.

Finally came the whisperings from Marseille, one name, one single man was being pointed to as the orchestrator of this global epidemic.

Kuryakin told himself it was not possible. It could not be the same man as he had killed Rasputin in Marseilles fourteen months ago...though the body had been burned beyond recognition. The death of this man had allowed the Russian agent  to assume his identity in that assignment in New York that seemed as though it had happened so long ago now.

“Rasputin,”Illya whispered the name in disbelief.

Could it be at all possible he was indeed alive? Was the man,  like his name sake of old, who after being poisoned, shot three times and finally thrown in the Volga river and drowned, still have survived?

The original Rasputin’s body was supposedly buried in secret to avoid desecration but that only created the myth that he was undying and immortal. To this day the stories were pervasive and since no one had ever seen the corpse, or knew it’s location. it was thought Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin lived after all the attempts to kill him had failed?

Was this other Rasputin the same? Undying and immortal?

Kuryakin was too much of a realist to accept this was the fate of the man he’d sworn he’d eliminated. Illya was the eternal realist, but yet this time he might have to force himself question his own judgement and to believe the unbelievable; Rasputin was somehow alive.

Not the original one of course, that would be ridiculous, but Rasputin the drug king...


	4. Chapter 4

  


                                                             

 

Illya Kuryakin sat alone in the office he shared with his partner. It had become living quarters as well, as guest quarters upstairs had become quite overcrowded, leaving little to no privacy for those now staying at headquarters full time.

He stared at  his desk calendar, taking note it was almost October 8th and the second blood moon of the tetrad would be occurring tonight.

Illya’s thoughts drifted to another ominous prophecy, one associated with the astronomical event besides the end of the world...the story of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

He’d taken more to reading such things, delving into the bible not for religious reasons but to find bits of facts relating to this ‘end of days’ scenario.’

One such discovery was that the riders were the heralds of the blood moons, and would arrive in a particular order, the White Rider, the Red Rider, the Black Rider and finally the Pale Rider.

The illustrations he’d seen for them were rather grisly, and conjured images of doom and gloom. Such images he’d put aside long ago and had not given them any thought since he was a small boy attending services with his family in St. Andrews Church in Kyiv, where fire and brimstone were preached from the pulpit. Everyone was evil and not worthy of God’s Love...

He’d not given credence to God or religion since the day his mother and twin brothers were murdered right in front of his eyes by the Nazis, and though his babushka urged him to pray that night, he refused. He could not believe in a God who could take his mama, as well as his baby brothers Sasha and Misha from this world in such a cruel way. *

                                                                   

Was it mere coincidence this drug destroying everyone’s lives was called White Rider, the name of the first of the four? He was the bringer of plague and pestilence. That was what surely was happening, as Waverly had called the drug a plague.

Illya ran his fingers through his unkempt hair that had gotten quite long, enough for him to tie it back in a short ponytail.

Though busy with the terrible situation that confronted them, Waverly still found time to warn his Russian  about getting a haircut and maintaining proper dress code and grooming within the Command.

Illya half listened as he had been lectured about standards before and supposed one of the Secretaries could take care of it for him...those who were still here.

Many had chosen to seek refuge with their families outside the city where things hadn’t become as bad.

Instead taking care of his haircut,  the Russian was racking his brain to come up with reasonable answers to the problem they all faced.

His frustration, along with physical and mental exhaustion were making him revisit these ridiculous myths about blood moons and horsemen again and again.

Still once the next blood moon arrived, he would see if it were his imagination or not; though he he hoped he was wrong.  
  
Illya reached into the bottom right drawer of his desk, pulling out  a leather bound black book...it was a copy of the bible and he searched through the pages he’d bookmarked. Napoleon wasn’t around, so there would be no dealing with the questions and comments his partner would most likely throw at him for having a religious text in his possession.

Illya read aloud from Revelations regarding the White Rider.

“Then I saw when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals and I heard one of the four living creatures saying as with a voice of thunder, “Come.” I looked, and behold, a white horse, and he who sat on it had a bow; and a crown was given to him, and he went out conquering and to conquer. “ His name was Pestilence.

The next rider, the red one should make his appearance in some shape or form with the next lunar eclipse.

That at least was his theory, though he wasn’t sure of it...Illya wasn’t sure of anything at the moment.

In his mind it was mere folklore, even though such things generally had their basis in fact. He had nothing else to hold on to at the moment.

Napoleon chose that exact moment to walk into the office he shared with Kuryakin, and caught his partner suddenly hiding something, hurriedly shoving whatever it was into his desk drawer and slamming it closed.

“What was that all about, “ Solo asked, not missing a trick.

“Nothing. You are back early; how did it go?”

It was obvious the Russian was dodging his question. Knowing Illya, a pair of horses couldn’t drag an answer out of him.

 

Napoleon sat down at his desk, his face drawn with concern.

“We lost two more agents today. Things are just out of control. The world has gone insane,” he sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to be dealing with T.H.R.U.S.H. and their schemes of global conquest right now; that would be a cakewalk compared to what’s happening out there.”

Illya hesitated, but finally took the bible from the desk again.

“Napoleon may I share something with you?”

“I’m all ears chum.”

“You were raised Catholic and are familiar with the bible are you not?”

“Ugh, yeah….tell me that’s what you were hiding from me?” Napoleon asked, spying the book.” Did you suddenly find religion?”

“Please Napoleon do not insult me and exactly the reason why I hesitated to broach this with you.”

“Sorry, please continue.”

“I have found some strange correlations between this White Rider drug, the four horsemen of the apocalypse, and the blood moons.”  He withheld mentioning Rasputin as there was no proof of that yet.

Napoleon shook his head. “Okay, I know about the drug and you’ve already explained the eclipses to me, but tell me how the four horsemen tie into all this?”

“I assumed with your Catholic upbringing that you would have been familiar with the prophecy of the four horsemen tied in with the tetrad of the blood moons.”

“Well, yes. You’re talking about the end of days...the rapture. The horsemen appear only after ummm, certain seals have been broken within heaven, basically releasing them.”

“Yes precisely.”

“Illya you’re telling me the end of the world is nigh? Have you been hitting the vodka again?

“Please I am serious, however, I am not speaking of the spiritual end of days,” he let out a long sigh of exasperation. “I think Rasputin is still alive and is the source of the White Rider drug. He is somehow tying it in with the end of days prophecy...why I do not know as of yet, but I suspect with the next blood moon, we will get more answers.”

“I’m not sure where you’re going with this tovarisch, but you've got my attention.”

“ The second rider is taken to represent War,  pictured holding a sword upwards as if he were preparing for mass slaughter. The horse he is astride is a fiery red one and it has been suggested in commentaries that he might represent civil war.”

Illya pointed to the bible, uttering another quote from Revelations.

“When He broke the second seal, I heard the second living creature saying, “Come.” And another, a red horse, went out; and to him who sat on it, it was granted to take peace from the earth, and that men would slay one another; and a great sword was given to him.”

“Illya have you spoken to the Old Man about this?”

“Not yet, as unfortunately we must wait for the next blood moon to pass before we can see if I am right.”

“Let’s say you’re right about Rasputin being alive and tying his drug scheme into all this religious fanaticism. It begs the question, why?”

Illya bit his lower lip. “That is the million dollar question my friend.”

“I think we need to tell Waverly anyway,” Solo rose from his desk, beckoning  for his partner to follow.

“No time like the present partner mine.”

As the pneumatic door opened with a quiet whoosh, Napoleon waited there for Kuryakin to join him.

 

* * ref "Beginnings" <https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6767104/1/Beginnings>


	5. Chapter 5

  
  


                                                                         

  
The night sky was filled with dark foreboding clouds but still the full moon was clearly visible. Slowly the eclipse began, little by little as it was sliced away by the shadow of the earth and became a haunting shade of red.

Napoleon Solo and his partner stood on the rooftop of headquarters in New York, watching the event and once it was over, it didn't take long before the next disaster showed itself as Illya had feared.

White Rider disappeared from the streets as quickly and an inexplicably as it had appeared. In it's place a new and even deadlier drug arrived to wreak havoc; not surprisingly it was dubbed 'Red Rider' but sometimes it was referred to as 'Happy Face'.

Red was more addictive than it's predecessor and the high achieved from it was so intense, so exquisite that it made more people seek it out inspite of the dangers that had been proven by its forerunner, White Rider.

This new drug completely addled a person's brains as they sought to stay in a constant state of euphoria.

Those who kept taking it stopped eating, drinking and sleeping and literally wasted away, perfectly happy as they slowly died with smiles on their faces. The drug made the users feel so good that they simply didn't care about the dangers of using it. Was it possible that people were taking it in fear of the end of the world...something they didn't want to think about?

Happy Face, however, did not help those addicted to White Rider...and now cut off from it entirely, those people began to riot. Buildings were set ablaze and half the city was burning out of control.

There simply weren't enough engines and firefighters to handle anything of this magnitude.

It was as Kuryakin had suspected, this was all somehow connected to the horseman prophecy and perhaps the eschatological theories concerning the final events in the history of humankind and the second coming of the Messiah. That was almost impossible for him to fathom...The more he read and researched, the more he realized so many faiths had the same scenario. Hinduism believed in great cycles of the destruction and creation of the universe. The Hebrew scriptures depicted catastrophes that would beset the people of Israel. In Christianity, the end times began with the life of Jesus, thought to be the Messiah who would return to establish the kingdom of God. Millennialism focused on Christ's second coming and the reign of the righteous on earth and the damnation of the wicked. In Islam, the Mahdi, or restorer of the faith, would come to begin the last judgment, in which the good would enter heaven and the evil would fall into hell.

No matter which way one looked at it... the end of the world was a common belief. It was Armageddon, but not a battle to be fought on some mythological plain; it was being fought now on the streets of the world.

Illya became concerned about his friend Claire, and without telling anyone; he went to the Bowery Mission to coax her into leaving. *

However, she refused to abandon those who were alone and friendless and they in turn remained to protect her from the onslaught of addicts, thieves and murderers who might assault the fortified building. At the moment the mission seemed to be somewhat immune, perhaps because most knew those within it had nothing worth stealing.

"Claire, please come with me. I can keep you safe," Kuryakin pleaded with the older woman."

She still knew nothing about what he did and where he worked.

"I can't leave these people," she stood her ground against his wishes.

"Then I will ask someone to stay with you. He will at least be armed and can better protect you. I have too much to worry about and the thought of you being in danger weighs heavily on my mind."

Though Claire was of sturdy stock, she was not a young woman and she was as stubborn as they came, perhaps even more so than her young Russian friend.

"No! You need every man you have to fight this insanity," she said, assuming he was some sort of policeman." We'll be fine here. My locals are staying to protect me and the mission...hey they're street people and pretty tough to have survived all these years you know."

"Yes I do," he pulled her towards him, gathering his friend into his arms and giving her a kiss on the forehead. "But please if you need help, do not hesitate to send for me? Promise?"

"I promise, now you need to get out of here before it gets dark. Go...shoo! Beat this thing...I know you can do it! And get a haircut," she joked.

"Yes I will. You are not the first person to tell me that and thank you Claire. I wish I was as confident in myself as you are."

She saw him to the heavy oak doors that were the main entrance to the place and bolted them behind him. They'd protected the Bowery Mission since the 1800's and she was confident they'd continue to do so.

Illya looked cautiously about as he walked towards the armored U.N.C.L.E. van parked at the curb, waiting for his return.

Suddenly he realized the driver side door was wide open and the Section III agent accompanying him was no where to be seen...it was young Agent Williams.

Kuryakin drew his Walther in one swift single motion as he turned three-hundred-sixty degrees, searching for the missing man.

There laying on the sidewalk hidden by some trash cans lay Williams' lifeless body. His wallet and weapon gone…

A blood curdling shriek came from behind the Russian as he knelt next to the body, and in a split second someone was on top of his back trying to wrestle him to the ground and seize his weapon.

After tussling, Illya wrenched himself free of his attacker's death grip, throwing her away from him.

"Give me your money!" A wild-eyed girl screamed at him, holding a sharp wooden handled shiv and waving it in his direction.

Her hair was long and matted, her clothes filthy as was her face. Through the layers of dirt and Illya recognized her instantly; it was Louise Miller, the girl he'd sent away from the drug den not six months earlier.

"Stop! Stop it!" He bellowed at her. "Do you not recognize me? Louise!"

The girl took a step back, staring at him with dilated pupils.

"Rasputin. Yes I know you. You were nice to me...I should have listened. I didn't go where you told me. I need White Rider, can you get me some? You have it right?"

"No Louise I do not, please put down the knife and come with me. I can help you. I helped you once before, did I not?"

She stared at him, feeling conflicted between the need for the drug, the need for help, and to feel safe again.

"I...I'm sorry," she stammered, taking a step back from him. She looked as though she were preparing to drop the knife.

A shot rang out, hitting Louise in the head, sending her body flying backwards, landing sprawled out and dead on the sidewalk strewn with human detritus.

Kuryakin didn't wait to figure out where the gunfire had come from behind him, and he ducked, making a run for the van. He dove into the driver's seat, just being missed as another bullet hit the windshield; the safety glass worked but the damage spread into a spider web of cracks.

Illya started the car, and flooring the gas pedal; the tires screeched as he tore down the empty street, zigzagging around the burned and abandoned vehicles that dotted the road.

.

Napoleon Solo was keeping watch on the roof of headquarters with John Uriel standing beside him. The F.B.I agent had taken up permanent residence there at the Command, acting as a liaison between the two organizations, though at the moment there was little information to be shared.

The deciphering of the little black book was still in the process, coming along ever so slowly, and as pages were missing some of the notations didn't make sense. Still, Research and Development weren't giving up hope.

.

A dark van was approaching headquarters at breakneck speed. Without hesitation, Uriel raised his AR-18 assault rife, taking aim where the driver sat, assuming the vehicle was going to try to ram the boarded up tailor shop entrance.

"No! Don't shoot," Solo barked.

Uriel obeyed, lifting his finger from the trigger at the last second; seeing what Solo was seeing... a long-haired blond through the cracked windshield of the van.

"Hold your fire, it's Kuryakin," Napoleon radioed. " Be ready to give him cover fire if he needs it."

The Americans watched as the vehicle screeched to a halt, jumping the curb as it did so. Illya ran straight for the steps leading down to the door of Del Floria's as shots rang out, hitting the brick wall above his head and sending bits of stone ricocheting around him.

"There," Uriel pointed calmly, aiming his rifle and firing into the window across the street where he'd seen a weapon's flash. He let loose a few well placed shots that seemed almost impossible to have made.

The gunfire was stopped...

Opening the door to Del Floria's, the brass bell rang it's welcome to the Russian; that sound was the only thing that remained unchanged.

Illya stared down the barrels of several U.N.C.L.E carbines as he stepped inside the dimly lit tailor shop. The steam press was silent and the room cold, but Tommy Lopaka, the head of Security, called out the all clear, allowing Kuryakin to pass.

"How is it out there brudda," the big Hawaiian asked.

"Bad, very bad," he answered without looking back. Heading straight to the dressing room and turning the hook; Illya waited impatiently for the door to the agent entrance as it slowly opened.

After receiving his ID badge, Illya headed straight to the Commissary, feeling the need for a strong cup of tea and as he took his mug to a table in the back corner of the room, he pulled a hip flask from his pocket and poured a healthy libation of vodka into it. It had been a birthday gift from Napoleon...when? His memory failed him at the moment, and that bothered the Russian

At the moment, he just didn't care. Just this one drink he told himself as he daren't have too much and risk dulling his senses...though he dearly wanted to be drunk out of his mind at the moment.

Losing young agent Williams had hit him hard and well as the final fate of Louise Miller. She had gone to the shelter as he'd asked her to but then Claire told him the girl disappeared back onto the streets and hadn't been seen again.

He sipped his spiked tea slowly, trying to enjoy it. There wasn't much tea left at this point and the food supplies at headquarters were being rationed carefully. Though many of the personnel having raided their own food stores in their apartments brought it all in and donated it, having basically moved into headquarters themselves for safety.

.

Food deliveries from outside the city were brought in under armed guard, not only for UNCLE but for markets around still able to remain open.

They were fairly well protected with private security services, but it was the little shops and bodegas that were at risk, though many of the owners bought shotguns and pistols to protect themselves.

Sanitation was a thing of the past as everyone still around working for that department in the city was helping to fight fires and save lives. The heavy garbage trucks were being used to help secretly transport supplies into the city.

Most people ventured out in small groups during the morning hours to get what necessities they could find as the addicts seemed to disappear during the daylight hours...perhaps an effect of the drugs. For the most part prices were reasonable, though there were unscrupulous thieves out there who didn't hesitate to engage in price gouging.

Gasoline was at a premium. Electric was being rationed as well, and was only on for a few hours a day.

Headquarters was operating on it's own generators, but power usage was kept to a minimum, supporting essential services. Half the building remained in the dark. The Masque Club and accounting offices above it at the other end of the block had been shut down completely now and the secure U.N.C.L.E. garage operated in half-light.

Security was of the utmost importance, but one would never have thought it wasn't against T.H.R.U.S.H.

The place was simply understaffed now. Too many agents had been lost in the beginning and Waverly stopped sending his people out onto the streets unless it was absolutely necessary. It was a question of hunkering down to wait and see what happened next.

Nothing could be done at this juncture, though it stuck in the Old Man's craw to have to take such a laissez-faire attitude; there was no choice. He simply refused to risk the lives of his people unless viable intel became available, and as of late that was in very short supply.

.

Napoleon called another agent to replace him on the roof; going in search of his partner, and wondering what had happened.

He was a little annoyed the Russian had left the building without telling him, and he was going to give Illya a piece of his mind for doing it…

It was too dangerous out there and why the man had ventured out was beyond him. Waverly wasn't sending anyone on assignment, so he knew Illya had to have done this on his own.

.

* ref. The Bowery Mission Series: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7575893/1/An-Attitude-of-Gratitude. 'A friend in need,' Twas the Night before.'A Cat's Tale affair'  Anything for a friend.'


	6. Chapter 6

  
  
                                                                               

 

Solo, as tired as he was, checked the usual places where Illya tended to haunt around headquarters as of late but after coming up empty-handed he finally resorted to calling Security to locate his partner's ID badge.

 "He's in the Commissary Mr. Solo. He went straight there as soon as he came into headquarters."

"Thanks Errol."

"You bet Mr. Solo."

It was a youthful voice that spoke, still filled with enthusiasm. Errol Finnerty was a greenhorn Section III agent who'd been promoted to Security, as there simply weren't enough agents to go around.

Many of the remaining field agents had been moved to different sections as well, as Waverly had all but done away with assignments in the outside world. There was little impact they could make on the current situation and he just wasn't going to risk his people's lives on what he thought might be a fool's errand.

Napoleon headed down to the small cafeteria, finding it fairly empty. That made it very easy to spot his partner sitting at their usual table, staring at nothing; seemingly lost in thought.

"Hey there buddy, don't let that tea go to waste."

There was no reaction, so he tried again to get Kuryakin's attention.

"Mr. Waverly said if you don't get your hair cut then he'll shave your head himself with a rusty straight razor."

Illya slowly looked up; obviously there was something on his mind.

"I lost Agent Williams," he finally picked up his mug again with a slight tremor in his hand.

"Shit, what happened?"

He told Solo about his venture outside to the Bowery Mission and Claire's refusal to leave.

"You really thought she would?"

"I hoped. I told her I would leave someone there to help safeguard them, though she refused that as well. It would have been Williams." He sighed, covering his face in his hands. "The young girl I sent away from the drug den, Louise Miller, she attacked me on the street when I came out of the Mission. She was looking for White Rider, thinking I was Rasputin. Someone shot her in the head, and then fired upon me…"

"When was the last time you slept tovarisch?" Napoleon sat down beside him. He thought he smelled alcohol on the Russian's breath, but said nothing.

"I… I do not remember. I guess it has been a while."

"Well as your boss I order you to go upstairs to the couch in our office and get some sleep. If you're too tired, you'll make a stupid mistake and I can't afford to lose you."

There was no pithy comeback from the Russian this time, only a nod that he agreed. He took one last sip of his tea, put down the mug and rose, heading slowly towards the door; his shoulders drooping just a little.

"And you better be going to our office,  _capisce?_ " Napoleon called out."I'll fill the Old Man in about Agent Williams….and no unauthorized ventures outside tovarisch." That was the sum total of the tongue lashing he had planned to give his partner, as he could see the remorse and guilt were punishment enough...or so he thought.

" _Sì ... il mio capo_ yes boss_ ," Illya responded in Italian, giving Solo the finger as he left the room.

Napoleon picked up Illya's mug, giving the remains a sniff and taking a taste himself; he confirmed his suspicions about his having been drinking. After what Kuryakin had gone through on the outside today; he didn't blame the guy. Solo just hoped the vodka wouldn't become a regular habit.

Illya had a tendency to hit the bottle when he was down, so he'd have to keep an eye on his partner.

Right now life was bringing them all down: they just coped in different ways.

.

The shrill screech of a barn owl cut the night air outside a dingy hole in the wall in the Catskills, where a slightly built man nervously paced back and forth. It was obvious he was waiting for someone...a person he really didn't want to have to deal with.

Being stuck here out in the mountains and not being able to go anywhere to even get a beer and mess with a woman...well nowadays it just wasn't that safe to even try.

The the simple cabin that must have been built in the 1920's, smelling of dust and mildew was sparsely furnished. It was surprisingly plain given it was occupied by such a rich and powerful man whose operation was secreted here.

There were a few old leather-bound books on a shelf, written in what looked like Cyrillic, though he dare not pick any of them up to verify that fact; not that he could read them anyway.

In the corner was a highly polished silver Samovar, and a porcelain tea set ...Soviet made, that he was sure of as his late grandmother had one like it.

On the wall was a mounted a yellowed photograph... a portrait of Tsar Nicholas and his family; though he found that a bit strange, considering how long ago the Emperor, Empress and their children had been executed during the Bolshevik revolution. It was something he knew little about, Russian history…

Though Borislav Navalny never paid much attention to his Slavic heritage; he was sorry he hadn't when it came to his latest boss. Navalny had been sought out and put to use because of his experience in setting up and supervising labs to manufacture illicit drugs, but this time it was on a massive scale.

The door to the cabin finally opened with a slow creak and in walked a cloaked figure; his long dark hair falling around his shoulders, though parts of it were missing on his scalp and the chin line where the rest of his long beard should have been.

His black beady eyes stood out as did his hawkish nose, but it was the red, raw burns that permanently scarred the right side of his face that added to the final image of terror that surrounded this man.

"Boss," the weasel-faced man greeted him, "I know I said we had some problems with the last batch of drugs. I thought it was some sort of screwup in the lab but…"

He was unable to finish as he was grabbed by the throat in a vice-like grip by an icy cold hand.

"Haven't I told you never to call me that Boris?"

His eyes stared into Navalny's, like two piercing daggers, making the man tremble with fear as he was finally freed from the icy grip..

"Yes sir, Mr. Rasputin, sorry sir it won't happen again," Boris gasped.

"What has happened at the lab?"

"Someone screwed up the formula you gave us. The whole batch was ruined, doesn't work at all."

"That someone will pay for this," Rasputin snarled.

"Hey it wasn't me bo...sir, please don't hurt me?" Boris groveled, his face averted downwards.

"I won't, if you bring me the fool responsible for this."

"Yes sir, right away sir," the underlying scrambled out the door.

Fifteen minutes later he returned with a grey haired man wearing a lab coat, with his wrists handcuffed behind him and flanked by two muscular goons.

"Ah, Professor Peter Cummings, so it was you who managed to disrupt my plans."

"Yes you madman, I did it and I'd do it again to stop you!" Cummings struggled while being held in place. "I know you're going to kill me, but I just want to know one thing? Why are you doing this?"

Rasputin threw back his head, laughing maniacally.

"I am speeding up the natural selection process, culling the herd so to speak. When the world is rid of the poorest specimens, I will make my presence known. I am counting on people to remember the prophecy of the Blood Moons and the end of the world. Except there will be no rapture… I will reveal myself as a messiah of sorts, saving everyone from the scourges that have plagued them. I will bring a new world order."

"You really are mad Rasputin!" Cummings said. "Another man filled with visions of demagogy, and who sent his goose stepping soldiers across Europe failed, as will you!"

Like so many other megalomaniacs, Rasputin couldn't resist bragging."

"I will be the true saviour of the world as it will be a simple matter for me merely introduce the cure for all the drugs. Just as easily as I gave them to the remaining weaklings out there, they will be freed of it either through death or the cure. You, however, Professor have ruined my last two additions to this end of days scenario…my beautiful Black Rider and my pièce de résistance and most potent of them all, the Pale Rider. Now we'll have to start all over…"

Rasputin's anger grew as he continued; his concern over this genuine threat to his plan meant he might not be able to meet his timetable with the last two Blood Moons now set him off.

He had to have it timed perfectly to coincide with the last two moons of the tetrad, it had to be just right for him to reveal himself as the redeemer of the masses. They would worship him for saving them all.

"You won't succeed, you'll be stopped," the professor barked.

"You insignificant little man, how dare you!"

"What are you going to do, kill me?"

"No," Rasputin snapped his fingers." You're not going to die today Professor, but your daughter is... Boris, bring her to me."

"Yes sir."

The Professor laughed hysterically, seemingly unfazed by the threat to his daughter who had been working in the lab as his assistant.

"What's so funny?" Rasputin demanded; confused by the man's reaction.

"That's for me to know and you to find out," Cummings continued to laugh.

Rasputin back-handed the man, forcing him into silence.

"Get him out of my sight! I want the lab operating twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, even if it kills this one and the other workers.. We must get back on track! Bring in more techs if needed. And increase the guards in the lab and warehouse. No one, and I repeat...no one is to leave this compound. Understood?"

"Yes Mr. Rasputin."

"And no more screw ups Boris or that will be the last thing you will have done before you die."

He disappeared with Professor Cummings in tow, taking him back to the lab.

The professor's daughter Christina was no where to be found, and that news made Navalny tremble as he slowly walked back to the cabin where Rasputin was waiting for her arrival.

One step after and other; the sound of his feet crunching in the gravel made him feel his impending door as he got closer to the door. Boris had no choice. He was a dead man and he knew it...

"She's gone?" Rasputin bellowed at him. "I warned you didn't I?"

"But boss...sir. It's wasn't my fault. I'll question the guards…"

It was too late, as Rasputin grabbed the man by the throat and slowly squeezed the life out of him. He let the body drop to the floor like it was a piece of discarded trash and turned to his head guard.

"You, Maynard….you are the new 'Borislav.' Do not disappoint me?"

"No sir. Mr. Rasputin," the guard nervously replied.


	7. Chapter 7

  
  


 

Christina Cummings wandered through mist-filled the woods, trying to follow the compass her father had given her hours earlier.

Dr. Cummings had been unsure about the job they’d taken on but when he heard about this drug called White Rider growing to epidemic proportions, followed by Red Rider wreaking havoc; it was then the chemist finally discovered he’d been one of the people responsible for creating it all.

It had to be stopped somehow, but Cummings couldn’t do what he had to if he knew his daughter wasn’t safe. He sent her to find his old friend in New York city, secreting her out of the camp... knowing Alexander Waverly and his people might be the only ones able to stop this lunatic responsible for all this terror.

Unlike her father, Christina had never seen the man they called Rasputin, but the description of him alone horrified her; that and the knowledge of what they’d been developing in their lab was killing so many people.

Her last instructions from her dad as he kissed her goodbye were to head to a little tailor shop in the city called Del Floria’s, located near the United Nations complex.

If the world hadn’t gone so topsy turvy she could have just gotten public transportation...but from the reports on the radio she and the others listened to at night,  public transport barely ran, if at all. It was dangerous out there...

The world was in chaos, and how she was going to get to New York was a conundrum she needed to solve and do so quickly.

She’d been wandering for days, having gotten lost in spite of the compass, when she finally came to what looked like an old farm house.  Christina saw in the darkness a warm and welcoming light, and knew she had to take a chance as she was exhausted, hungry and cold; the cooler fall temperatures had come early.

Climbing up to the porch, she took a few staggering steps towards the door. She intended to knock but before she could, the inside door swung open, and there standing behind the screen door was a dark-skinned woman brandishing a shotgun.

“Get off my porch!” She hollered.

“Please, I need help.”

“No one needing help would be out after dark, now I said git!”

“Please ma’am, I’ve been walking for days. I haven’t eaten.”

The girl fainted.

.

Christina awoke, finding herself lying on a floral sofa, covered with sheets and a cozy woolen blanket.  There were several lit candles scattered around on tables, and a crackling fire burning in the hearth.

“Child I never thought you’d wake up,” the woman who’d been at the door with the gun spoke to her.

“I’m sorry,” the girl answered,” I didn’t mean to make you nervous.

A transistor radio softly playing music in the background was interrupted with a news bulletin, listing the latest outbreaks of rioting and looting, going on mostly in New York city, but had also affected places northward like Albany. It was all blamed on the need for the old drug White Horse and the newest one, Happy Face.”

“I know who’s behind it,” Christina whispered.

“How can you know that girl,” the old woman handed her a mug of hot soup.”

“Because I was working in the lab where these drugs are being made...with my father and others being held against their will and are being forced into stockpile the supplies of these insane drugs.”

“Good Lord? How did you get away?”

“My father helped me...though I’m sure he’s dead as they do doubt found me missing. They don't really need him anymore, or the other...” Christina couldn’t cry at this point as she was so traumatized.

“Well you can rest here...what’s your name baby? I was so busy waving that gun in your face, I’m so sorry, but an ol’ lady’s gotta be none too careful nowadays.”

“My name is Christina Cummings, what’s yours?”

“Folks call me Miss Lottie, Lottie Henderson.” She poured more soup from a pot into Christina’s mug. “Sorry, this is the best I got, but Campbell's Chicken Noodle soup never none hurt did it?’

“No ma’am, and thank you Miss Lottie for taking me in.”

Several curious faces peaked around the door frame into the living room.

“Children now I told you not to bother this young lady,” Lottie wagged her bony finger at them.

“No, they’re not bothering me. Hi there,”Christina smiled.

“All right you can come in then,” Lottie waved.

Three boys of varying heights walked inside.

“These are my grandsons. Michael the youngest...he’s ten. Maurice, he’s fifteen, Martin is sixteen…”

“I’m almost seventeen Grandma,”

“All right boy all right, Martin is almost seventeen.”

A tall handsome fellow stepped into the room behind them.

“And this fine strapping young man is Roosevelt my oldest grandson, he’s twenty...a whole minute older than his twin Raymond….he’s asleep upstairs, as should be the rest of you young ones.”

“Pleased to meet you all,” Christina said. “You’ll excuse me for not getting up?” She was so tired, and felt as though she couldn’t move.

“Grandma why would she wanna get up?” Michael innocently asked.

“Hush boy. Now you said your hello’s. Time to get upstairs and put on your pajamas, and don’t forget to say your prayers and thank God for another day that we were safe.”

“Lottie, I’m grateful for your help, but I need to leave.”

“Not this time of night child, you’ll get killed out there. Too many of those hopheads wandering the roads.”

“I have to get to New York city as soon as I can. It’s the last thing I promised my father….to find his friend. He said Mr. Waverly and his organization could stop the madman who’s behind all this drug nonsense.”

"Miss Christina, you can leave for the city in the morning if you want. It’ll be safer, you’ll be rested and have a better chance of making it, understand me?”

“Yes Miss Lottie.”

“Good, sounds like your daddy raised a sensible daughter. Now Rosie here is going to be up through the night sitting watch. He has a rifle so don’t let that frighten you child.”

“Roosevelt, make sure Raymond knows we have company before he comes down to take over. Don’t want him getting all excited and shooting Miss Christina here.”

Lottie gathered up the dishes, running her hand against the soft hair of the girl, though she’d already fallen asleep.

“Lord, bless her and protect her on her mission to save Your children,” she prayed before going up to bed, carrying her shotgun with her.

.

In the morning, Christina awoke to a bright sunrise, with the birds happily chirping outside. For a moment all seemed right with the world as she sat up and stretched her arms above her head, until reality came back to her.

“Good morning,” a young man resembling Roosevelt smiled at her. He walked in carrying a rifle in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“You must be Raymond, I’m Christiana.”

“Grandma says to come back to the kitchen as she has oatmeal on the stove and bread coming out of the oven.”

Christina folded the bed sheets and blanket on the sofa, stacking them with the pillow and headed down the hallway to the kitchen.

“Why good morning Miss Christina, I hope you slept well on that lumpy old sofa of mine. Lord, my late husband Georgie would love to take his naps on that thing.  Now have a seat and dig in."

She set a heaping bowl of oatmeal in front of the girl.

“I put some cinnamon and raisins in it for more flavor. We’re out of sugar and have been for a while, though we’ve still been able to get the basics like oats, flour and such.  Meat we get from hunting and I had a vegetable garden out back that’s came in handy, and I do a lot of canning.  Chicory root for coffee, thank goodness. I pray to the Lord it’ll be enough to last us through these terrible times.”

"Well if I can get to Mr. Waverly in New York, maybe he can end all of this like my father said he could...but keep saying those prayers anyway Miss Lottie.

“From your mouth to God’s ears child.” Lottie gave her a few slices of buttered bread and filled her mug with more coffee.  “This is chicory, a little different tasting but it hits the spot just right. Can’t get my Chock full o'Nuts anymore.”

Christina helped the older woman with the dishes and decided it was time to go. Though Lottie wasn’t happy about it, she knew the girl was on a mission and wouldn’t stop her.

“Here, take this child,” she handed her a road map. “Now come with me?”

Christina was led outside behind the house to a garage, and Raymond opened the door.  There inside was parked a green 1950 Oldsmobile coupé shining like it was brand new.

 

  
“This was my Georgie’s car and I swear that man loved it just as much as me. Now I want you to take it and get yourself to this Waverly fellow as quick as a bunny.”

  
Raymond started the car, pulling it out slowly and putting it into park.

“Now my grandson here is coming with you just to make sure you get there safe and sound.”

“I promise she will Grandma.”

“No Lottie I can’t ask him to risk his life. He needs to stay here and protect you.”

“Honey I have four other grandsons to help me and besides Raymond here is to look after his grandfathers prized possession, now aren’t you sugar?

“Yes Ma’am.” Raymond put a bag of ammunition in the back seat of the car along with his rifle.

Lottie sent them off with a basket of food and the last of the soda pop, waving to them as they drove off down the empty road; saying a little prayer.

“Lord watch over them please?”

 


	8. Chapter 8

  
  
                           
Kuryakin had positioned himself on the rooftop of headquarters, taking his turn with Mark Slate to keep watch. Every building that was part of the U.N.C.L.E. complex encompassing the entire block had snipers manning the rooftops, not only protecting the few agents that had to go in and out for whatever reason, but any innocents who'd dared to venture outside as well.

Once the sun had gone down, it was another story. No one was on the streets as roaming bands of hoodlums and drug crazed addicts wandered about at night like zombies.

 

It seemed the daylight hours drove them indoors, whether it was a side effect of Red Rider or not, no one knew or even cared at this point. With that pattern finally established, people were able to cautiously come and go, bringing in supplies to the ravaged city.

That was how life went on in New York city and the rest of the country. Europe was following suit, and Asia was now falling under the domain of the Red Rider; only Africa and Australia seemed to be unaffected as of yet.

There was no traffic traveling along the street now as the sun had gone down, yet Mark suddenly kicked Kuryakin's foot as the Russian had just squatted to his knees to wolf down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

"Oy mate, headlights coming up the block."

Illya stood, ready to cast a spotlight and focus it on the vehicle.

There was no speeding or erratic driving and the car...from the looks of it an older model slowed, pulling up curbside not far from the entrance to Del Floria's

He finally hit the bright beam of light, shining it at the car as the occupants climbed out, and looked up to him.

"Freeze where you are and state your intentions."

A female and male stepped to the sidewalk, trying to block the light shining in their eyes with their hands.

"All right mate, drop the rifle," Mark yelled down, spotting the weapon in the male's hands.

"We're looking for Alexander Waverly," the girl called out, while gesturing for her companion to put down his weapon."My name is Christina Cummings...my dad is a friend, Professor Peter Cummings. I know who's controlling all these drugs."

"Stay where you are," Illya called."Someone will be there in a moment to escort you inside.

Napoleon Solo and two security team members appeared, rising from the stairwell that was below street level like phantasms in the darkness.

"I'll take that gun sir," the Section V agent said, relieving Raymond of his weapon," and the keys to your car too."

"If you two will follow us," Solo asked, guiding them down the hidden stairs and through the entrance to the once busy tailor shop.

"Be careful with that car please?" Raymond added,"it belonged to my grandfather."

One of the agents remained behind, getting into the Oldsmobile and moving it into the secure U.N.C.L.E. garage around the corner.

Christina and Raymond were brought through the dressing room entrance, though a bit bewildered by it. After being scanned for other weapons and found clean, they were both issued black visitor's badges by a very tired receptionist.

They were taken not to Waverly's conference room, but to separate interrogation cells, where Illya met his partner and the questioning was begun in earnest.

Waverly watched and listened from the gallery above and once he was satisfied, Christina was brought to his conference room, as she'd refused to discuss the origins of the apocalyptic drugs with no one but her father's friend.

Raymond was deemed a true innocent in this, just helping to protect Christina and his grandfather's car. He was taken to the Commissary and given a meal while he waited to be reunited with his traveling companion.

In the conference room Waverly gathered with his agents to meet his old friend's daughter. She was looking drawn and haggard, yet she was a grown woman now and hadn't seen her since she was a child.

"My dear, you have your mother's eyes," he gave her a little smile."

"You knew her?"

"Yes but it was a very long time ago, in a different life. Now you said you know who is behind this drug epidemic and in that you have my complete attention..."

Waverly sucked on the mouthpiece of his pipe out of habit since there was no more tobacco to be had.

"Please enlighten me on you and your father's involvement, and where it took place."

She was seated at the table, flanked on either side by Solo and Kuryakin. John Uriel had joined them at the meeting as well.

"You see dad and I were engaged by some man to work at a secret lab last year and we were told it was a government project, hush hush and all. When this insanity began my father started becoming suspicious and he realized the drugs called White Rider and Red Rider were what we were manufacturing there. Dad couldn't change what had already been done, but he decided to sabotage the next two batches of drugs...what they were calling Black Rider and Pale Rider...the last and worst one. He wanted to try and stop it all."

"Where is this lab?"Napoleon asked.

"It's in the Catskill Mountains, though I'm not really sure of the exact location. My father got me out of the compound as he wouldn't risk doing anything with me being there… It took me days to find a small town and sorry I don't know the name of it. You'll have to ask Raymond. I was helped there by his grandmother Lottie. She gave us food, a map and her car and well...here we are."

"Miss Cummings, the man who engaged your services,"Illya asked,"Is his name Rasputin?"

"Why yes it is. How did you know that? Though I never met him, only dad did."

"I had a previous run in with him in France, though I thought he was dead." He raised his eyebrows in satisfaction now that his suspicions were indeed confirmed.

"My father said you can stop this madman Mr. Waverly. Is that true?," Christina asked.

"My dear, we will most certainly endeavor to try our best. Gentlemen, this is the break we have been waiting for. I need you to pinpoint the location of this drug den, find it and destroy the lab and all of their stocks of drugs as soon as possible. This Rasputin fellow, bring him back dead or alive. You Agent Uriel; I am authorizing you to join in this operation. Mr. Solo, however, will have lead on this. Any objection?"

"No Mr. Waverly, but one suggestion. wouldn't it be more prudent to have a larger force sent in to take down this Rasputin and his lab.

"Stealth is our greatest weapon young man. Messrs. Solo and Kuryakin are quite adept at that. So just go along with whatever plan of attack they come up with."

Uriel nodded his acceptance.

Lisa Rogers entered with a tray, carrying Waverly's afternoon tea, though his favorite biscuits were in short supply.

He asked Christina to remain behind to speak to her about her father and have tea with him; afterwards she'd be escorted up to the Commissary for a brief meal and to rejoin Raymond. After that it was up to guest quarters for the both of them until something else could be figured out.

Speaking with Raymond gave them the location of his grandmother's house and Illya, based on the time it took Christina to travel there on foot from the Catskills, estimated where they needed to go.

After visiting the armory and loading up on a plethora of weapons and explosives, Solo Kuryakin and Uriel headed down to the garage and loaded up the armored van; it's windshield having been repaired and welded in place was galvanized wire mesh. On the roof of the van was mounted a small satellite dish that was already rotating to pick up whatever the agents needed, whether it was radio signals or movement of groups of people or vehicles.

They still needed to be cautious in their travels.

"So what's the plan?" Uriel asked as they slowly exited the garage.

"There is no plan as of yet," Illya said, keeping half an eye on a small radar screen mounted on the dashboard as he drove the van.

.

It was around East 45th Street that several blips appeared on the screen.

"We've got company tovarisch," Napoleon said. He moved to the back of the van, stepping up and opening a small hatch in the roof and just as they headed right to 1st Avenue they were attacked.

Bullets ricocheted off the armored sides of the van as a large group of desperate addicts charged the vehicle; forcing it to stop in front a flaming road block. It was a trap as more of them came out of no where, charging the rear of the vehicle

Napoleon reached out, lobbing smoke and gas grenades, offering cover. "Punch it Illya!" He yelled, and Kuryakin rammed the blockade, smashing through it.

Solo climbed down once they were clear; locking the trap door closed after himself.

"Well that was exciting," he said to Uriel, who sat aghast at the clockwork precision with which the two men handled themselves.

"See, no plan," Illya actually smiled.

Three hours later they arrived in the Catskills, in a remote area where they were unable to take the van. After smearing their faces with grease paint and changing to dark clothing, and a cap to cover Illya's blond hair, they gathered up their supplies went on foot, following Kuryakin's lead as he used a compass and his own sense of direction to locate the compound.

It took another forty-five minutes before they finally came upon it.

Surrounded by barbed wire fencing, they watched as guards patrolled the interior perimeter. The compound consisted of a warehouse, surrounded by smaller buildings raised up on cinderblocks….the layout resembling a concentration camp if anything. Outside the fenced in compound, about fifty yards away, was a cabin that looked as though it had seen better days.

Watching patrols again and again, a pattern emerged. This one turning that way, when they guards changed, when they took their breaks. All very methodical and predictable.

"There is a gap every fifteen minutes,"Illya whispered as he pointed."As well as a blind spot there." 

"Just enough time for us to get past the fence and across to the buildings," Napoleon added. "Tovarisch, you take the warehouse and the building closest to it. I'll take the other two. John you see to the cabin."

"That's it? The big plan?" Uriel asked, dumbfounded, he supposed as it seemed too simple. "What about the guards? Shouldn't we take them out first?"

"And risk being discovered, no my friend. Stealth, remember?" Illya said.

"How will I know when…?" Uriel started to ask.

"Trust me," Solo smiled. "Illya has a nice distraction planned."

The F.B.I. man shook his head, just trying to imagine what that meant.

Minutes later their opportunity arrived. Kuryakin scuttled to the fence, quickly cutting the lower strands of barbed wire and carefully pulling them back, giving just enough for him to crawl through. Napoleon, right on his heels, followed after while Uriel headed up to the cabin as ordered.

The first thing they did was set the charges and timers on the warehouse, it requiring more explosives than the other buildings because of its size.

They quickly ducked beneath the structure directly next to it; raised on cinder block supports, it offered them cover. Presumably the lab,; Illya not missing an opportunity, set more charges up under the floorboards while they waited for the guards to change and what would be their next window to move.

Except this time the routine suddenly changed. Instead of the guards switching their positions like clockwork, the two men stopped and lit up cigarettes and proceeded to have a smoke and a gab session.

Napoleon tapped his wristwatch, looking at his partner and shrugging, indicating the timers would now be off on the warehouse as well as on the building they were hiding beneath.

If they could move within the next few minutes, the time difference wouldn't make a big difference.

It felt like an eternity as the two guards continued chatting about nothing in particular, and finally they finished their smokes and went on their way.

Peeking out from their hiding place, Solo made sure the coast was clear and with Illya beside him, they headed to the last structure in the complex.

This one, the barracks was given special consideration as had been the lab. There they set smoke bombs that would force anyone inside to come out, but there'd be no explosion...not yet.

The agents wanted to protect the innocents working there, including Professor Cummings, if he was still alive. Once people were out of those two buildings, explosives with delayed timers would go off and destroy them.

With the last of the devices in place, it was time for Illya's diversion.

He crawled out from their hiding place when the coast was clear and pulling a rather large roll of firecrackers from the pocket in his field pants; he lit the fuse and threw them out into the open.

A moment later…"BAM, BAM, BAM-BAM-BAM!' The firecrackers went off one after another, sending the guards running from every direction.

The U.N.C.L.E. agents picked them off with sleep darts like they were in an arcade shooting gallery.

"Ready?" The Russian nodded.

"When you are Kimosabe," Solo grinned.

They entered the lab, finding only one guard present, and he was taken out by the American with a quick karate chop to the neck.

There cowering behind a workbench was Professor Cummings, and three other workers.

"Professor," Napoleon announced. "Your daughter sent us."

"Oh thank God, she's alive then?"

"Yes, now we need to get you all out of here before the real fireworks begin," Illya interrupted.

"Wait," Cummings said. "We need to get something from the safe."

"We don't have time," Napoleon grabbed the man by the arm.

"I have to get it! I must!"

"Get what? Illya asked.

"It is the cure. Rasputin has created a cure for all these drugs."

"I will help him," Kuryakin said." Get the others out."

Illya and the professor headed to a black floor safe in the back of the room, but Cummings suddenly stopped, realizing he'd made a mistake.

"What is wrong?"

"I don't have the combination." 

The UNCLE agent clicked his tongue, pushing the professor aside as time was of the essence. He put his ear to the safe door, listening carefully as he slowly turned tumbler, listening as it clicked.

Smiling, he turned the handle and opened it with ease.

Cummings reached inside, grabbing a small vial filled with a clear liquid and a piece of paper.

"This is the only sample and copy of the formula."

" _Ahhh , tak chto my yeshche vstretimsya Kuryakin_ahhh, so we meet again Kuryakin?"_ An ominously familiar voice spoke in Russian from behind them. He held a narrow cane sword in his hand, pointing it at the two men.

Illya rose slowly, standing frozen in disbelief for just a second.  
  
Rasputin was indeed alive and he turned to face the man with a look of utter determination in his cold blue eyes.

This was going to end once and for all...

 


	9. Chapter 9

                                                
  


 

Rasputin flashed a scarred grin that looked more like a gash across his face; seemingly pleased with himself for the moment, though he was unaware of the explosives that had been planted throughout his compound.

"Professor if you would carefully put down the vial and please relieve Mr. Kuryakin of his weapon….hold it with two fingers only."

Cummings complied and with a shaking hand he took Illya's Walther from its holster and laid it on top of the safe next to the vial and formula.

" _Kak eto vy zhivy_how is it you are alive?_  "Illya asked, raised his hands above his head." How did you survive the fire?"

" _Vy vse yeshche ne ponimayete Kuryakin_ you still do not understand, Kuryakin?"_

"I understand that you are a madman hell-bent on destroying the world, that is all I need to know."

Rasputin laughed, throwing his head back as he did so.

 

 

That was Illya's split second opportunity and he suddenly dove towards the dark Russian, grabbing him around the throat, squeezing as hard as he could.

" _Na etot razvy sobirayetes' ostavat'sya mertvym _this time you are going to stay dead!_ " Illya growled as the two men wrestled.

" _Etogo ne proizoydet_that will not happen!_ " Rasputin bellowed.

Rasputin out weighed Kuryakin and was a good six inches taller, giving him a physical advantage, but still the blond was wiry, having the tenacity of a snarling wolverine and wouldn't give up.

The professor watched the two men grappling until he saw Illya suddenly arch his back, staggering back from Rasputin… a dagger protruding from his abdomen.

"What was that you said about me staying dead Kuryakin?" Rasputin laughed as he watched the agent collapse to the floor, laying there in a growing pool of blood.

Rasputin grabbed his sword, zeroing it in on the blond's throat.

.

"Come on  _tovarisch_ , we gotta blow…" Napoleon stopped in mid-sentence, momentarily startled by the dark-cloaked figure looming over his downed partner.

Seeing the blood, he cried out. "You bastard!"

Solo took aim and shot Illya's assailant between the eyes as his head turned: ignoring the man as he fell dead to the floor and stepping over his body to get to his friend.

"Oh Jesus," he moaned, cradling his partner's head," Don't you leave me."

"Lookout!" A cowering Professor Cummings cried out.

Rasputin was on his feet and about to drive a hypodermic syringe into Solo's back.

The American tried dodging to the side but it was too late as the needle found his shoulder and the contents injected into him.

Napoleon fell backwards, the drug coursing through his system and sending his head reeling.

Bright flashes of light, spirals of color...he couldn't keep his balance and the inside of his head felt like someone was playing a game of ping-pong with his brain...yet at the same time he felt euphoric as light as air, like he was floating free of his earthly constraints. Still there was a part of him grounded to reality and that made him fight to keep himself upright, but it was an impossible battle that he was quickly losing.

He had no idea he'd been injected with the drug called  _Pale Rider._

_._

Rasputin pointed his sword directly at the professor, preparing to drive it through the frightened man's heart.

"Now to take care of another loose end." He pointed his sword at Cummings who shrank back in fear.

"Please don't?" The professor begged.

" _ **In nomine Patris, tibi ut cesset manus tua: quia impius bestia_In the name of the Father, thee that shouldst thy hands be idle, thou ungodly beast,"**_  A commanding voice shouted out in Latin.

The presence stood behind Rasputin, brandishing a long brightly polished sword.

"You must be on one of my drugs. You have no idea who I am," the dark Russian laughed. "I am Rasputin...the immortal and undying. No man can kill me."

" _ **I am no man...I am the**_ _ **regent of the sun, flame of God, angel of the**_ _ **Divine Presence, presider over Tartarus and the destroyer of the hosts of Sennacherib. I have come to end this abomination. It is I who holds the key to the 'pit' though it is not yet the end times, It is there to hell I condemn thee in the name of the Lord for all eternity. Prepare to die...Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin!"**_

The Russian crossed his arms in front of his face in horror as the man standing in front of him seemed to burn bright with a golden light, and great feathered wings rose from his back.

The angel's sword burst into flame and in one swift motion he swung it as pitiless as any demon, beheading Rasputin.

The decapitated head hit the floor and rolled, coming to a stop with the face of Rasputin exposed in a grotesque look of utter shock. It and the quivering body began to shimmer. There was a pop and a cloud of black smoke-filled the air, quickly dissipating and leaving nothing to show the malignant creature had ever been there.

This spawn of Satan was finally dead and would at last, remain that way for all eternity.

.

Napoleon woke to the sound of multiple explosions, and sitting up he found himself and Illya outside the compound, lying in the grass at a safe distance as each of the buildings blew up in a spectacular display and erupted into a mountain of flame.

Sitting with them, looking quite bewildered, was Professor Cummings; a small glass vial and piece of paper clutched in his hands, with the other techs and all the darted guards were scattered around them, still unconscious.

_"Illya?_ " Solo gasped; crawling to his partner's side.

The knife was no longer sticking out of the Russian's belly, and after a quick examination, Napoleon found his partner pale but breathing easily; the wound, astonishingly, was almost completely healed, with just a small fresh scar to show where it had been.

He shook his head, wondering if it had all been his imagination; his brain scrambled by whatever had been injected into him by the man he assumed was this Rasputin.

Napoleon looked to Cummings for answers. "Is Rasputin..?"

"Gone...dead, but you're not going to believe me when I tell you how.

"Try me."

The professor recounted the story of the sword wielding man, the flames and beheading….and how the body of Rasputin disappeared. It was all rather far fetched, and Napoleon wondered if the professor was on drugs too.

"I think…I think it was an angel sent by God to end all this," Cummings stammered.

Napoleon had his doubts, but given Illya's investigation and hints at this all being the end of the world with it's the biblical connotation... well just to be on the safe side; he uttered a prayer of thanks to God for it finally coming to an end, or at least giving them a light at the end of the tunnel, with both he and Illya still somehow alive and well.

He pulled his communicator, calling for a medevac and cleanup team.

Napoleon searched for hours looking for John Uriel but he was nowhere to be found and it was assumed the agent had been killed in the ensuing explosions. Solo felt bad about that as he'd taken a liking to the guy.

.

The agents, professor and the other technicians were brought to headquarters in New York for debrief. The T.H.R.U.S.H. lackies were sent to a prison facility in Canada, for interrogation and hopefully re-education.

The formula to cure people of their addiction to the Rider drugs was duplicated and farmed out to other labs to be mass produced and distributed as quickly as possible.

Clinics were being set up and lines were endless as drug users behaved himself...well under armed guards as they waited to be cured of their addiction.

.

Waverly was delighted to see Christina and her father safely reunited, and Raymond was given an U.N.C.L.E. escort to return to his grandmother's house, along with an ample supply of food stuffs to see them through, including Chock ful o' Nuts coffee just for Grandmother Lottie.

Once all had been settled, the Old Man had the sad task of calling the F.B.I. to inform them of their agent's demise during the operation. It was assumed that was what had happened as a body was never found, but with the amount of explosives that had been set, everything was pulverized and burnedburned to ashes. Nothing was left.

There was utter confusion on the other end of the line as the Old Man spoke to the acting F.B.I. director Walter Simpson.

"Mr. Waverly, that's impossible sir. John Uriel died months ago on his way to New York to help with your investigation. Whoever it was that worked with you was an imposter."

Napoleon and Illya listened in as their boss received the news over the speaker, watching the man's bushy eyebrows raise in surprise.

"Thank you Walter, we'll investigate this further and get back to you. Good day." He abruptly disconnected the call.

"Well gentlemen," Waverly turned to his agents, recalling Professor Cumming unbelievable story, "Perhaps there was some divine intervention after all in this horrendous affair. Given the odd coincidence of our impersonator's last name."

The partner's looked at each other, giving a shrug...not understanding where the Old Man was going.

"Surely Mr. Solo with your Catholic upbringing are familair with the names of the seven archangels are you not?"

"I remember some of them...Gabriel, Michael, Raphael. Hmm, I can't recall the other," Napoleon blushed.

"They are Simiel,Oriphiel and Raguel…and  _Urie_ l," Illya said. "Though I never made a connection.

That conclusion had them all raising their eyebrows...

.

The next blood moon came round and Napoleon and Illya found themselves again on the roof of headquarters, but this time they were simply there to watch it the event and not be frightened by it; they supposed by doing so it made for a sort of closure to the events of the last eighteen months.

The lights of the city had returned, people were back on the streets and the rebuilding process was well under way. The world was safe for now, until the next madman threatened its existence.

Rasputin, though once an advisor to the Romanovs and considered a bit of a ladies man had somehow morphed into evil incarnate or maybe he was that all along? Was it Satan who made him immortal?

It was strange though that his last act of creating a cure helped save the world in the end from his own ill intentions.

There was that irony and perhaps divine intervention as the Old Man had said.

"What do you believe about all this, I mean Uriel and Rasputin being the real one...?" Napoleon asked as they watched the eclipse; both of them taking long drags from their cigarettes, but stopping and looking at each as they did so; they tossed the butts aside, snuffing them out with their shoes.

"For once my friend I have no rational explanation as to what happened,"Illya answered," I will let you take it as a matter of faith on both our behalfs...for now."

"Amen to that, brother,"Napoleon smiled, clasping his hand on the Russian's shoulder.

"I believe in the power of that faith  _tovarisch,_  even though you don't. Something miraculous happened, of that I'm now convinced. The drug in my system that night was killing me, you were dying, yet somehow we were whisked outside the compound before it blew and we found ourselves healed."

Illya said nothing, and simply stared out at the last of the eclipse. He once believed in God and had faith, but for so many reasons that had all been driven out of him, leaving him empty and perhaps wanting.

Napoleon was right...how did he survive that belly wound? He should have died, yet he was healed. Was it a miracle? Perhaps he wanted to believe, and return to the faith of his family. He would have to think further on it before making his decision...he was, after all, the eternal pragmatist and realist.

Napoleon smiled, watching his friend stare up at the sky, seemingly lost in thought. Somehow he couldn't help but feel that he and Illya were being tested by a greater power, and by virtue of the fact, they both miraculously saved and escaped an impossible situation; that being the case, he could only believe they'd both passed the test...for now.

There was a sudden breeze and Solo canted his head to one side; swearing he heard the sound of John Uriel laughing…  
  
  
  
  
* A/N: Uriel, one of the seven archangels is mentioned in the earliest Christian texts by Pope Saint Gregory I who listed them as Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, Uriel , Simiel,Oriphiel and Raguel. (this is not the definitive list of the archangels and they vary in Judeo-Christian writings)

Uriel, is always pictured as carrying a flaming sword and is called the " _the_ _regent of the sun, flame of God, angel of the Divine Presence, presider over Tartarus (hell in Greek mythology) and the destroyer of the hosts of Sennacherib was the son of Sargon II whom he succeeded on the throne of Assyria (705 – 681 BC)._


End file.
